


Entendre

by breathtaken



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Canon Era, Imprisonment, Innuendo, Multi, Polyamory, Trapped, Trope Subversion/Inversion, Watersports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-06
Updated: 2015-01-06
Packaged: 2018-03-06 10:22:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3131030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/breathtaken/pseuds/breathtaken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Aramis’ eyes flick to d’Artagnan before he shrugs gracefully, deliberately fixing Athos with the slow, lazy smile that always comes just before an invitation to his bed.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Though Athos doesn’t respond – outwardly at least – he can’t help being affected, all the same. Hell, he’s probably conditioned by now, that smile telling him as plainly as if Aramis had spoken aloud of what would follow, had they even a modicum of privacy.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>D’Artagnan leans around Porthos, and says cheekily, looking far too pleased with himself, “Don’t mind me.”</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Entendre

**Author's Note:**

> Inversion of [Cave Story](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Cave_Story). In which everyone's a smart-arse.
> 
>  **Content notes** : 'Light' watersports, if there is such a thing.

The sound of footsteps; then the guard stops in the open doorway and spits pointedly, and walks on.

Under his breath, Athos mutters, “Six.”

Turning to look back at his brothers where they’re sitting against the cell wall beside him, he says in an undertone, “He’s passing about every five minutes, or a little longer. Maybe ten at most.”

Porthos frowns. “Anything we can do?” he asks, even though it seems he already knows the answer.

Athos is already shaking his head. “It would be foolish to attempt it. Tréville knew what the chances were when he sent us here. We’ll just have to await our rescuers.” With no little effort, he lifts his hand to pluck critically at the cuff of his borrowed shirt, where the simple lace edging is already frayed and tatty.

“That desperate to get it off?”

Aramis’ tone is teasing, one eyebrow raised, though there’s no real intention behind it. He even manages to make being shackled to a wall in stale-smelling clothing from the communal disguises pile look attractive, Athos decides, observing the way that Aramis leans back, bracing himself on his hands as he angles his body towards Athos, languid as a cat in the sun – and immediately becoming annoyed with himself for noticing.

Porthos snorts.

Athos debates rolling his eyes, but mindful of how long they may have to wait for rescue yet, decides it’s most prudent just to ignore them both.

D’Artagnan sits the other side of Porthos, his expression hidden from Athos’ eyes, which Athos decides is probably a good thing. Aramis isn’t normally this... blatant, and he wouldn’t wish to feel as though he has to manage the boy.

It must be obvious by now. Perhaps it has been for a long while, and he’s not sure when he stopped caring.

“Doesn’t feel right, not to be in uniform,” Porthos says, fingering the fastenings of his own shabby doublet with distaste.

Athos notices that Porthos seems to have no trouble lifting his manacled wrist.

“Well, I must confess, dear Porthos, that I prefer you in your leathers,” Aramis replies, tossing his head back nonchalantly – just avoiding hitting it on the bars of their cell, much to Athos’ disappointment – and displaying the lines of his neck in a way Athos has seen him do far too many times before.

At exactly that moment, a shaft of sunlight comes through the single high window and illuminates Aramis’ upturned face as though he’s looking upon the heavens, his hair shining a deep warm brown in the light.

Athos has to resist the urge to groan.

“And here was me thinking you preferred me out of them,” Porthos grins – and if there had been any doubt at all then that’s put paid to it entirely, of course.

“ _Gentlemen._ ”

“Athos. We’re just passing the time,” Aramis objects, though he’s still looking smug from having drawn Porthos into his little game. Not that that’s ever difficult, Porthos’ greatest failing being his willingness to follow wherever Aramis leads him.

In response, Athos jerks his head in the direction of d’Artagnan.

Aramis’ eyes flick briefly across before he shrugs gracefully, deliberately fixing Athos with the slow, lazy smile that always comes just before an invitation to his bed.

Though Athos doesn’t respond – outwardly at least – he can’t help being affected, all the same. Hell, he’s probably conditioned by now, that smile telling him as plainly as if Aramis had spoken aloud of what would follow, had they even a modicum of privacy.

D’Artagnan leans around Porthos, and says cheekily, looking far too pleased with himself, “Don’t mind me.”

It’s not like Athos doesn’t know what Aramis is doing here – but he’s not sure he cares.

Perhaps it’s inevitable. Perhaps it has been for a long while now.

And if it makes him an old roué, then, well – he’d never even expected to get this far. This – all of this – is just a bonus.

This time he does roll his eyes, rather dramatically, and shifts over a little to his right to lean fully against the bars of their cell, resting his heavy hands in his lap.

And Aramis accomplished lover that he is, knows a surrender when he sees one. “It’s not like we can do anything else here. No cards, no dice. I can’t even _polish my weapon_.” His last words land with just enough weight as he meets Porthos’ eyes, in clear challenge.

Adding a lewd gesture to the mix would be overkill. Probably. Even considering the presence of d’Artagnan.

Good thing his shackled wrists are too heavy to be worth moving unnecessarily, then.

“Pity, that. He’s the best,” Porthos informs d’Artagnan, with the certainty of one who’s speaking from experience. “Fine hands, but a good firm stroke. Very thorough.”

D’Artagnan, when he joins in, can’t quite keep his excitement in check at finally being allowed to sit at the grown-ups’ table, though his eyebrow arches delightfully and his laughter’s under control, at least. “But do you keep these talents to yourself, or can others reap the benefits of your _expertise_?”

“For my brothers, anything is possible,” Aramis replies, his manner perfectly benevolent – though his voice drops off significantly in volume as he sees the guard look in again through the open doorway.

While the good guardsmen of Le Havre may be nominally on the side of the law, he reminds himself as he watches d’Artagnan rub awkwardly at the shackles encircling his wrists that it still wouldn’t do to provoke them, not when none of them are in a position to defend themselves.

“When we get out of here,” Porthos stage-whispers, conspiratorial now, “I’m looking forward to oiling my tack.”

He’s said and done a lot stupider things for the approving smile that graces Aramis’ face. It makes him look even more beautiful, almost as beautiful as when he’s writhing beneath Porthos’ hands, moaning his name.

He wouldn’t normally say _beautiful_ , for a bloke, it’s a bit too much – but for Aramis, it fits perfectly.

D’Artagnan is grinning too, but a little uncertainly, as if he’s trying to work out exactly what sex act they’re talking about.

Porthos supposes they’ll have a few things to teach him, when they finally get out of here.

“Oh, I’m sure,” Aramis murmurs, his eyes fixed on Porthos with an intensity that burns a path of desire along his spine and right down to his groin. “And what a sight it is. So firm, glistening where you rub the oil into it, slowly yielding as you work it with your fingers, always so diligent.”

This is getting – well, not serious, they’re still clearly messing about. But. Something. Something more than it was, that involves Aramis actually _trying_ to arouse. And succeeding, of course, because he’s Aramis.

D’Artagnan, staring at Aramis with his mouth hanging a little open, crosses his legs.

Aramis winks.

Porthos would love to throw himself over there and kiss that ridiculously attractive smirk right off Aramis’ face, but between being shackled to the wall and this whole hostage situation, he’s forced to accept that it’s just not going to happen.

Instead, he looks right back at him and says, in the same low, loaded tone, “Course, why would I do my own when I could do yours?”

“Why, my dear Porthos. Always so selfless,” Aramis replies, though his smile this time is warmer, and full of love.

“A virtue that Aramis would do well to emulate,” Athos chips in unexpectedly, his slight drawl betraying the fact that he’s truly relaxed, for the moment at least, “that and patience.”

For a moment nobody’s quite sure if Athos is playing, based on Porthos and d’Artagnan’s expressions of surprise and the arch of Aramis’ brow as he retorts, “I don’t remember hearing you complaining, the last time you two... _assisted_ me.”

“Well, a problem shared is a problem halved,” Athos deadpans, turning away just too late to hide the telltale twitch of his lip; and Porthos can’t help chuckling aloud, as much at Aramis’ outraged expression as at Athos’ wit.

There’s a few moments of silence as Aramis sulks and d’Artagnan sneaks a speculative glance at Athos, which of course is noticed by everyone present; and that’s when Porthos realises the pressure in his bladder is rapidly becoming insistent.

He’s been locked up enough times to know that options are few, and so he gets awkwardly to his feet, explaining, “Gotta go.”

The floor is covered in a layer of straw, at least, though he figures that’s probably as much for the guards’ benefit as for theirs.

Porthos stands, undoing the buttons at his crotch, his body angled towards Aramis and d’Artagnan; he wants to keep his back to the door, d’Artagnan supposes. He automatically averts his eyes – only to find that Aramis is still looking straight at Porthos, something appreciative in _his_ eyes that makes d’Artagnan turn hot and cold all over because sex is one thing but this is _weird_ suddenly, it’s more than he understands or knows how to deal with.

Aramis meets his gaze, smiles enigmatically, and goes back to watching Porthos.

It occurs to d’Artagnan then that if he wants to _watch_ too then he should at least look as soon as possible, before Porthos gets his cock out. Give him a chance to turn away, or something of that nature.

Resolutely ignoring the part of him that’s trying to ask the rest of him why the fuck he’s suddenly interested in this, d’Artagnan looks up – at Porthos’ face – and raises his eyebrows in a silent question.

Porthos nods, almost imperceptibly, and grins.

Aramis shifts up and over, the reach of his manacles just enough to allow him to rest a heavy hand on d’Artagnan’s shoulder, as Porthos draws his cock out from his linens.

It’s – more than d’Artagnan expected, in every sense, thicker and longer and a little darker too; and he finds himself wondering if Porthos is a little aroused, whether from Aramis’ teasing or from their eyes on him. His own linens are tighter than he’d like, and he can’t look away as Porthos relieves himself, angling his cock to urinate as far from where they’re sitting as he can.

“It’s intimate,” Aramis murmurs, drawing d’Artagnan’s attention, his voice not pitched to carry. “That’s why it’s appealing. How many people would you let watch you do this?”

The question’s rhetorical, but d’Artagnan knows he never has. He’s sure they’ve all pissed beside each other scores of times by now, but he’s never seen any of his brothers _look,_ and he knows it would have been very different if they had.

“And it feels delightfully dirty, which always helps,” Aramis concludes, apparently reading d’Artagnan’s mind, and squeezing his shoulder one last time before wedging himself back into the corner.

Beside d’Artagnan, Porthos sits down again, leaning his back against the wall.

Athos glances at him once, and then away; the only one of them who wasn’t looking, d’Artagnan thinks, and he’s not quite sure what that means, or how he feels about it.

“So what are we gonna do when we get out of here?”

It’s Porthos who asks; and it’s Aramis who answers, “I rather thought that was self-evident. Unless there’s somewhere else you’d rather be.”

The tone’s a little sharp, but when Athos looks up again Aramis’ eyes are sparkling, and Porthos’ smile shows his dimples when he replies easily, “Nah. Never gonna happen.”

Aramis’ answering grin is wicked. “Oh good. Because I believe d’Artagnan would like to join us?”

It’s the barest hint of a question, and d’Artagnan apparently can’t help glancing over at Athos before he says hurriedly, as if the invitation might be rescinded at any moment, “Yes. Of course. If that’s...?”

“You’re one of us, are you not?” Athos answers, forcing himself to meet d’Artagnan’s gaze; and though he’s steeled himself for it, the sheer gratitude he sees there has him wondering how long exactly the boy has known, and if it’s been remiss of them not to offer before now.

“Yes, but – I thought perhaps that –”

D’Artagnan can’t quite make himself say it, and ducks his head, Porthos reaching over with effort to pat him on the knee.

“We thought we’d wait until you were physically restrained, just in case,” Athos offers; and it’s not quite a joke nor an excuse nor an apology, but he supposes it’ll have to do.

Of course, Aramis just can’t resist. “And there was me thinking that was more your style, Athos.”

Athos quickly decides that this is _not_ a conversation he wants to be having in front of d’Artagnan until much, much later. “Of course, the downside is that I can’t punch you right now.”

Aramis’ grin is more of a baring of teeth. “No, but wait until later and you can make much better use of your fist.”

It’s said so casually that it takes Athos a moment – and he’s so torn between exasperation and reluctant amusement that he ends up saying nothing at all in response, just closes his eyes and takes a long, deep breath (smelling mould and stale piss, unfortunately), remembering as he does so that this is what he, well. Loves about them.

It would serve Aramis right if he does try and get his whole fist in there once they’re finally out of this place.

Or wouldn’t, because he’s probably depraved enough to enjoy it.

Resisting the temptation to let the smile twitching at his lips blossom into a grin – he doesn’t think he’s grinned in six years, it’s his ace and he’s going to save it for a better moment even than this – he rests his head against the iron bars again, and opens his eyes.

The sound of footsteps; the guard stops in the open doorway and squints at them suspiciously, and when he sees nothing untoward, walks on.


End file.
